


Blank Canvas

by Phoenix_Soar



Series: We Were in Screaming Colour [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Artist Crowley (Good Omens), Body Worship, Charcoal, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanart, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, Sensuality, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: Aziraphale doesn’t - couldn’t - know about the centuries’ worth of painstaking sketches Crowley has hidden away, their subject a poorer version of the Angel depicted on the wall of the Sistine Chapel, drawn solely from a Demon’s memories.Because Crowley will never get to see Aziraphale likethat.Certain secrets and truths come spilling out amid a jealous outburst. Crowley fears he has ruined things between them, but when Aziraphale seeks him out later, events unfold in ways Crowley has hardly dared to hope for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: We Were in Screaming Colour [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762366
Comments: 56
Kudos: 344





	Blank Canvas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lychoubi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lychoubi/gifts).



> This is a fic for the talented **Lychoubi** , inspired by their artwork 'The painter and his muse', which you can view on [Tumblr](https://chouly-stuff.tumblr.com/post/618018282140844032/the-painter-and-his-muse-i-have-absolutly-no) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/CALLW0FFN2_/). I was completely enamoured by the atmosphere of that piece, and I couldn't rest until I wrote this.
> 
> Originally intended to be a single scene, this fic got away from me a bit. I tried my best to capture the feelings I got from 'The painter and his muse', and I hope you enjoy reading this humble offering.

It’s not the right time to ask the question.

In truth, there can never be an appropriate time to ask such a question. However, halfway through sampling a new dessert special at the Ritz probably falls on the worst possible end of the spectrum.

Aziraphale freezes, a spoonful of some exotic coconutty fudge suspended below his parted lips.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he says.

He looks innocently bemused, his brows furrowed just so, but Crowley doesn’t miss the flash of shock in those blue eyes. Nor the sudden breathlessness in his voice.

Crowley exhales shakily, glad for the sunglasses hiding the force of his unhappy glare from the stunned Angel.

‘I said, why the heaven are you in the bloody Sistine Chapel?’

‘The Sistine…’ Trailing off, Aziraphale puts down his spoon. ‘My dear, I’m sure I don’t -’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about,’ Crowley says sharply.

They are silent for a long moment, both as still as the dessert bowl and half-empty wine glasses on the table between them.

‘How … how did you see that fresco?’ Aziraphale finally asks, his voice just above a whisper.

‘It’s the digital age,’ says Crowley, trying in vain not to betray any more emotions in his voice. ‘I don’t need to burn myself on consecrated ground when I can just Google your precious Michelangelo’s _masterpiece._ ’ His tongue curls around the last two words, laced with venom.

‘I wasn’t aware you took such offence at my friendship with Michel -’ Aziraphale begins, looking bewildered.

‘I didn’t care until I saw that you posed nude for him!’

Aziraphale’s eyes widen and Crowley, with instantaneous shame, regrets his outburst. He regrets bringing up the topic. He regrets having seen the fresco at all.

He had not foreseen any of this when he looked up the Sistine Chapel on his smartphone earlier this morning for no other reason than transcendental boredom. As a being of Hell, Crowley never had the opportunity to see the chapel’s famed frescos in person, but he’d vaguely recalled that Aziraphale used to be on good terms with the artist.

 _Very_ good terms, he’d realised just a few minutes later. As he lazily zoomed in on the photographs to admire the details of what Crowley initially mused was very fine artwork indeed, his eyes caught on an unassuming male figure, seemingly just another one of the dozens illustrated in the frescos.

Crowley had looked harder. He stopped breathing.

The figure, muscled and slightly plump, was half-sitting and half-reclining, propped on one elbow while his spread legs, facing forward and toeing the line of indecency, dangled from his marble perch; his pose as surreal and dramatic as the rest. The man was almost bare, every line of his torso visible under the translucent garment stretching over it. Below the waist, nothing but a white loincloth shielded his modesty.

Lips parted almost in a look of divine ecstasy, his blond head was tilted upwards, emphasising the arc of his throat and hiding most of his features … but Crowley would know his likeness anywhere.

Crowley had stared at the painting for several minutes. He switched off his phone.

When he picked up Aziraphale hours later for their dinner plans, he’d thought his lips forever sealed on what he saw. And yet, observing Aziraphale happily chattering away over his foie gras, all Crowley had been able to think about was the Angel stripping down for the eyes of another.

Someone had memorised every curve and line of that sumptuous body and captured them in immobile beauty for all the world to see.

Something Crowley has never had the privilege, no, the _intimacy_ , to see.

The unbearable silence between them breaks as Aziraphale says, very softly, ‘I was not nude.’

‘Sure. Just shy of a loincloth.’ His voice comes out bitter and Aziraphale’s frown deepens.

‘I did give the fellow some divine inspiration to paint the -’

‘Oh, is that what they call it?’

Aziraphale inhales sharply. ‘What is going on with you? Why are you taking issue with this?’

Crowley stills. He is not being fair to his friend, he realises. Aziraphale doesn’t know the particulars about Crowley’s own friendship with another master of the arts. He doesn’t know about Crowley swiping some charcoal when Leonardo wasn’t looking, to try his own hand at the easel.

Aziraphale doesn’t - couldn’t - know about the centuries’ worth of painstaking sketches Crowley has hidden away, their subject a poorer version of the blond male Michelangelo threw up on the wall of the Sistine Chapel, drawn solely from a Demon’s memories.

Because Crowley will never get to see Aziraphale like _that_.

Deflating, Crowley slumps in his chair. ‘Never mind,’ he mumbles.

‘Crowley -’ Aziraphale begins, but the Demon drops a handful of cash that wasn’t in his pocket before and gets to his feet.

‘I’ll see you around, angel.’

He stalks out of the Ritz, blocking out Aziraphale’s voice and cursing himself for the jealous, miserable wretch that he is.

~***~

There are four missed calls on Crowley’s phones by noon the next day. Three on his landline, including anxious voice messages left on his antique ansaphone, and the fourth on his mobile. There is no accompanying message with that last one.

That Aziraphale has resorted to ringing Crowley’s mobile is the surest indicator of the Angel’s worry.

Crowley lets the echo of the final ring fade away. He will call Aziraphale back, but before he can even contemplate facing the Angel again, he needs to get himself together first.

Bracing his palms on his study table, Crowley casts his gaze across the sketches upon sketches spread out on the black, expansive surface. Etched out in charcoal, Aziraphale looks back at him from every page. Not all of them are a close likeness to him, especially the earliest drawings that Crowley cringes to look at now. But in each one, Aziraphale smiles at him, eyes crinkled in that look of unreserved joy he wears whenever Crowley does something that pleases him.

Crowley hasn’t taken out his sketches in years, these quietly yearning attempts of his to capture an Angel he can never truly have. Not in the way that he dreams of.

But after the mess he was reduced to last night, Crowley makes himself look upon them once more; to come to terms with himself and what he is allowed to have with Aziraphale, before he packs them up again.

He will put them away, this carefully kept secret of his, and then head over to Aziraphale’s to salvage what he can of their relationship.

Without the fear of Heaven and Hell breathing down their backs anymore, the open friendship he now gets to enjoy with Aziraphale is more than he’d ever thought he could have anyway.

It’s foolish, Crowley tells himself thickly, to want even more.

The bell to his flat, untouched by any human since the day Crowley moved in, rings at that very moment.

Crowley starts. Before he can do anything more than whip around, he hears his front door open, followed by swift footsteps he recognises as surely as the unmistakeable ethereal aura that permeates his home.

Aziraphale appears in the doorway of his study, eyes searching and immediately locating the Demon. He hesitates, but only for a second before he invites himself inside.

‘You didn’t call.’ The statement is quiet. Accusing.

‘No.’

‘You didn’t answer my calls.’

Crowley drops his gaze, feeling stirrings of guilt rise within him. ‘I was going to. Later.’

Aziraphale’s nostrils flare. ‘When? Do you know how worried I was about you? After the way you left last night -’

His voice catches in his throat as his eyes land, inevitably, on the sketches scattered across Crowley’s table. Feeling caught in a way he has never experienced before, Crowley can only watch, mortified, as Aziraphale approaches and stares with wide-eyed wonder at the sizeable collection on his desk.

They are not something that can ever adorn the walls of an exhibition. But each sketch is a revelation of the unwavering attention and patience its creator had poured into bringing its softly smiling subject to life.

Not a single one depicts Aziraphale as less than modestly dressed, but under the Angel’s intense scrutiny, Crowley feels completely and utterly naked.

His drawings, he knows, betray every confession that he has refrained from giving voice.

All of them are now laid bare before Aziraphale.

An endless minute, a small slice of eternity, passes with not a breath between them. Aziraphale turns slowly to Crowley, his eyes shimmering with an emotion Crowley is terrified to read.

‘My dear, I … I should very much like to pose for you.’

~***~

They are in Crowley’s bedroom, because that’s where the lighting is best, the south-facing bay windows pouring in the afternoon rays.

Crowley has thought a lot about having Aziraphale in his bedroom, but not even his wildest fantasies, piled up over the millennia, could have painted him this particular picture -

Aziraphale, facing the bed and away from Crowley, is undressing himself. He does it carefully, achingly slow; removing one article of clothing at a time.

The cream-coloured coat slips off his broad shoulders first, snagging lightly on his elbows before it falls free; it vanishes before it hits the floor, appearing next moment, neatly folded, on an ostentatious chair Crowley keeps in his room purely for decorative purposes.

Aziraphale’s hands then disappear from Crowley’s line of sight as he undoes his bowtie. The strip of tartan cloth dangles from Aziraphale’s fingers before it, too, is whisked away by a miracle to join the coat.

In this manner, Aziraphale reveals himself to Crowley, who stands several feet behind him, frozen, not breathing, unable to look away for a single moment. Aziraphale doesn’t turn around and Crowley doesn’t dare leave the safety of his easel, clutching at his charcoal pencils as if they were a lifeline. Breathless, he listens to the soft metallic clinks of Aziraphale undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, his cufflinks, his crisp shirt, all of which are peeled off his body with the same care he had given his coat.

Something shifts in the air when Aziraphale’s shirt at last slips off his shoulders, baring for the first time skin Crowley has never laid his gaze upon. There is a sharp intake of breath - Crowley, for the life of him, cannot have said to which of them it belongs - and Aziraphale’s torso stiffens, tension lacing the soft muscles being revealed to Crowley inch by agonising inch. But Aziraphale doesn’t stop and the shirt is dispensed with, leaving the Angel bare from the waist up.

Aziraphale pauses then, and all Crowley can do is helplessly glut himself on the sight before him, taking in the pale unmarked skin of Aziraphale’s wide back dusted with a rosy blush that deepens around his neck and shoulders. He wonders what Aziraphale looks like from the front, how far that lovely flush extends down his chest.

Crowley doesn’t know for how long he just stares before Aziraphale moves again. He eases his feet out of his brogues, revealing feet covered in tartan socks for a brief moment before they disappear, presumably to the chair again.

Crowley gapes at the flash of ankles before the sound of more buttons popping catches his attention.

His mouth goes dry. ‘A-Aziraphale,’ his voice is hoarse as he speaks for the first time since they entered his room, ‘you … you don’t have to -’

Aziraphale doesn’t let him finish. His trousers catch, for the briefest of moments, on the slight curve of his arse. And then they are pooling at his feet, revealing luscious porcelain thighs and shapely shins, and Crowley forgets every language he has ever spoken.

Thin cotton briefs remains the only shield between Aziraphale and Crowley. Then that final barrier falls too as Aziraphale, with an audibly shaky exhale, bends down to push them off.

And Crowley wonders if Aziraphale knows what he’s doing to him, if he’s aware what a bewitching vision he makes in all of his vulnerable nakedness.

Still, he doesn’t look at Crowley, doesn’t turn around as he finally climbs onto the bed. The crisp sheets, presently white because Crowley wants Aziraphale to be the only splash of colour there, dip and wrinkle under his weight. He settles not far from the edge, still facing away as he leans his weight on his right palm, and loosely tucks his legs to the left.

Aziraphale seems to hesitate then; abruptly, he waves his free hand, pulling a gauzy white shawl out of the air. He drapes it modestly over his lap, and then flings its trail over his left hip to fall stylishly over the edge of the bed.

It does nothing to cover him, not from where Crowley is standing, but the extra touch to the sensuality already cocooning Aziraphale is overwhelming.

‘Is … is this pose all right?’ Aziraphale finally speaks. Crowley doesn’t miss the tremor in his voice.

He is not looking at Crowley but he angles his head to the left, just enough to provide enough profile for Crowley to glimpse the slope of his nose and lowered eyelashes; the hint of a blush.

Crowley gazes at the Angel bathed in the afternoon gold on his bed. His heart almost hammers right out of his chest.

‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘You’re … it’s perfect.’

Swallowing, Crowley wrenches his eyes away long enough to focus on his easel. He places the tip of his charcoal pencil - his hand is shaking - on the blank canvas.

A breath. A glance.

Crowley begins to sketch.

~***~

Crowley doesn’t think of himself as an artist, not in the traditional sense. His sketches of Aziraphale were born not out of a desire to create, but the desperation to realise an old yearning.

Over the centuries, his fingers have learnt how and where to move a piece of charcoal in order to take Crowley’s memory of Aziraphale’s smile and place it on paper.

But the picture in front of him now, there is nothing familiar about it.

There is no muscle memory to guide his fingers, to trace the alluring arc of Aziraphale’s neck meeting his bare shoulders; to follow the line of his back, broad and soft-looking, down to where it curves out into plump buttocks; or to even carve the elegant arch of his feet, the slope of his thick legs curled on the white sheets.

These parts of Aziraphale were never offered to Crowley before, and he has to learn anew how to capture his Angel again.

It feels like something out of a fever dream. Crowley catches himself every now and then staring at the Angel, who sits still as a statue, to make sure it’s real.

It must be. Because from only a dream, he could never know to draw the dip in Aziraphale’s back muscles, running down the line of his spine. From mere imagination, he could never know the exact curve of that roll of fat around Aziraphale’s hips, jutting out into perfect love handles.

From just a memory, he could never depict such beauty on his canvas.

It must be real.

As time ticks by in its slow, unwavering march, Crowley’s fingers grow black. He’s always liked charcoal, the monochrome simplicity of it, with no colours to distract from the rawness of what he’s trying to achieve. He can’t illustrate the catch of sunlight in platinum blond hair, or the golden glow on pale flushed skin, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. He smudges the charcoal with practised fingers, using both hands to capture the shadows in the rolls and grooves of Aziraphale’s back, the cleft of his soft cheeks, the hollows in his bent legs, the flutter of delicate eyelashes…

Blue meets gold and Crowley catches his breath as Aziraphale looks at him, truly looks, for the first time since Crowley agreed to sketch him.

It lasts little more than a second and Aziraphale swiftly returns to his pose. But Crowley doesn’t miss the heavy blush that dusted his cheeks or the slight tension that creeps back into his shoulders.

He doesn’t miss what he saw in Aziraphale’s eyes.

‘Relax, angel,’ he says, his voice soft.

A shiver dances down Aziraphale’s back. Crowley sees it, sees the way Aziraphale ducks his head a little lower, the heightened redness on the apple of his left cheek.

Crowley looks at the blunted tip of his pencil, resting on the middle of his half-finished sketch. He looks at his fingers, blackened all the way down to his palms with charcoal.

Aziraphale is here. He wants to do this; he is placing his complete trust in Crowley to bare himself, to let Crowley capture what he has never been able to before.

Aziraphale is here and he looked at Crowley with everything they have never dared to acknowledge between them for the past six thousand years.

Aziraphale is here and Crowley … is not alone in this.

Crowley leaves his easel. It’s not the canvas he wants to paint right now.

Aziraphale must sense his approach, but he doesn’t move a muscle except for the hitch in his breath when Crowley places the tip of his charcoal pencil on the nape of his neck.

Crowley brings it down gently, in a thin dark line that glows against the fairness of Aziraphale’s skin. Crowley traces it with two fingers, smearing the black into grey over Aziraphale’s neck.

The Angel shivers again, and this time Crowley hears him, the low shudder that escapes his lips.

‘Oh, angel,’ Crowley breathes and he can’t help himself anymore.

He lowers his mouth to Aziraphale’s nape, parting his lips to press a long kiss to the warm skin there. Aziraphale’s curls tickle his nose and Crowley kisses him again, tasting the sharp tang of charcoal and the salt of Aziraphale’s sweat on his tongue.

‘C-Crowley?’ Aziraphale says, his voice trembling.

Crowley buries his nose in Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in his intoxicating, heady scent. ‘If I read everything wrong and you don’t want this, tell me now,’ he whispers. ‘And I’ll never bring it up again.’

An agonising moment of silence passes. And then, slowly, Aziraphale eases out of the pose he has been holding for Someone knows how long. He turns around on Crowley’s bed to finally, finally face him, paying no mind to how the white shawl protecting his modesty shifts on his lap.

There is a gentle shimmer in his blue eyes, not quite the sheen of tears but something inherently emotional as he looks up Crowley. Soft hands come up to cup his face, stroking Crowley’s cheek and the hair he’s allowed to grow too long again.

‘Oh, dearest,’ Aziraphale says. ‘You and I, we have never been so right until this moment.’

Crowley’s breath leaves his lungs and his eyes flutter shut as Aziraphale gently pulls him down. Their lips touch in the purest of meetings, an intermingling of breaths and souls, and nothing has ever felt more _right_.

‘Angel,’ he murmurs against petal-soft lips. He almost falls over when Aziraphale tugs him in, urging Crowley to climb onto the bed with him.

The charcoal pencil is abandoned in favour of a soft supple body that feels perfect under his hands. Aziraphale sighs into his mouth as Crowley gently lays him down on the white sheets. He kisses the Angel’s sweet lips, again and again, chasing his subtle, addicting flavour with tongue and teeth while his hands, granted free reign at last, explore.

His fingers, the eager insatiable things, map the as yet uncharted territory of Aziraphale’s throat and collarbones with the reverent touch of an archaeologist uncovering long buried civilisation. They press over the war drums of Aziraphale’s frantic heart, evokes a choked gasp with a tease athis hardened nipples, and roam over the swell of his stomach to massage adoringly at soft love handles before sliding lower, to caress warm thighs dusted in downy hair.

Aziraphale trembles beneath him, making soft breathy sounds into Crowley’s mouth while his hands bury themselves in Crowley’s hair, winding the curls around his fingers.

‘Unh.’ Aziraphale makes a protesting sound as Crowley pulls away gently, drawing himself up to take in the Angel for a moment.

Laid out on Crowley’s pristine sheets, Aziraphale is flushed the rosiest shade of pink and panting. His glowing, unblemished skin is lightly smudged all over, carrying the dark grey streaks of charcoal left in the wake of Crowley’s wandering hands.

For a second, Crowley feels a flare of possessive pride. Aziraphale is the loveliest canvas his hands have ever graced.

But then his smile fades, a disheartening fear taking over.

‘I’m making you dirty,’ he mutters, beginning to pull back.

‘Crowley.’ Aziraphale’s hands grasp Crowley’s biceps, keeping him in place. The Angel looks up at him, his eyes open and earnest and devastatingly _knowing_ , as if he heard the underlying meaning in Crowley’s words.

The unspoken, _I’m sullying you._

‘Oh, my dear. I … I felt it, you know.’ At Crowley’s quizzical brow, Aziraphale smiles. ‘The sketches on your table. The utter love and devotion you poured into those drawings … I could feel it, Crowley. I felt it so clearly.’

Aziraphale caresses Crowley’s cheek with his knuckles. ‘Oh _darling_ , you could never taint me. You, who is better than any other I have met.’

‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley almost chokes on the name and the Angel pulls him down into a kiss again.

‘You can touch me, darling,’ Aziraphale whispers.

He reaches down to remove the final piece of cloth hiding him from Crowley. The thin white shawl is discarded unceremoniously over the side of the bed. Smiling up at a stunned Crowley, Aziraphale takes the Demon’s hand and guides it down, pressing it on him.

‘Paint me everywhere.’

Crowley could not have refused his Angel even if he’d wanted to. With a shuddering breath, he lowers his lips to Aziraphale’s neck and does exactly that. He fills his hands with Aziraphale, smearing into his skin all the words he couldn’t tell Aziraphale for millennia, and it’s not long before his mouth follows the same path, branding Aziraphale as irrevocably as the Angel has him.

Collapsing on the bed together afterwards, Crowley lets Aziraphale interlace their fingers together.

’I’m gonna take a leap and say you definitely didn't do all _this_ with that Italian.’

Aziraphale chuckles, looking at Crowley with a good-natured mix of exasperation and fondness.

‘My sweet, ridiculous serpent. I have never wanted all _this_ with anyone but you.’

At that, Crowley can hide neither his grin nor his blush. A delighted bark of laughter escapes him when Aziraphale begins to pull him close again, his intentions clear in the flash of renewed arousal in his eyes.

‘I still have to finish my sketch of you,’ he reminds Aziraphale, only half-teasing.

‘Later,’ Aziraphale says, tugging impatiently at Crowley’s shirt. ‘We have both waited too long for this, and I don’t intend to waste a second more.’

Muse renewed in the best possible way, Crowley will pick up his old hobby again, this time his sketches born not from memories filled with longing, but the subject of his drawings sitting within arm’s reach, smiling at him.

It will take some time but eventually, Crowley will come to notice that Aziraphale’s smiles in his new sketches are not that different from his older works - because, for all that the artist had been blind to it for a long time, his subject has never looked upon him with anything but love.

**Author's Note:**

> I could’ve written a wholeass ~~Titanic~~ human AU for Lychoubi’s lovely art. But my brain gotta be like, _let’s add disaster artist!Crowley to 6000 Years of Pining_ instead  
> I hope you enjoyed this one, Lychoubi! I've made it no secret on Instagram how much I adore your work, and as always, I look forward to more! Guys, go check out their work and shower them with love <3
> 
> If anyone's wondering: the description of the ‘Aziraphale’ Crowley saw in the Sistine Chapel is based on a real figure in the fresco - he resembles Michael Sheen to me, I was so surprised! (I won't pinpoint which one bc I think it’s more fun when left to the imagination or for you, dear readers, to pick your own Aziraphale from Michelangelo’s work of wonder <3)
> 
> Please do drop a comment and let me know what you thought! Or come hmu on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) or [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)
> 
> More of my Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar)


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